


to which fate binds

by extasiswings



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Miranda Barlow Appreciation, Mixed-Orientation Marriage, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: “Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.” -Marcus AureliusMiranda and Thomas Hamilton, the early years, and the man who eventually completes them.





	1. Courtship

London is horrific.

Well, no. Not precisely. 

_London_ is grey and dreary and smells nothing at all like the countryside where Miranda had grown up, but is nothing she can’t live with. London _society_ is almost amusing, and reading people—understanding them, getting to know them beyond glittering frocks and jewels and twisted updos—is generally diverting enough to pass the time at least. But the _season_...the season is _dreadful_. Being paraded around in front of prospective suitors like a prize cut of meat, never mind the fact that she has neither the dowry nor the docile nature likely to attract the most eligible prospects, is exhausting and annoying, and honestly, rather humiliating. 

Her aunt thinks otherwise and is quite determined to find her niece a husband whether Miranda particularly wants one or not. Naturally, this involves social calls and salons and any number of balls, none of which are any more interesting than the last.

That is, until they are.

* * *

"Come now, Hamilton. Are not the words of men the best interpreters of their thoughts?"

"Actions," Miranda corrects under her breath, from her place by the wall—a so far successful attempt to avoid being forced to meet someone else her aunt had hand-selected for her. At least she thought it was under her breath—apparently in reality it's loud enough to draw the attention of the two men. 

"Excuse me?" The original speaker flicks his eyes over her casually, the smile edging his lips amused enough even as condescension drips from his tone. Clearly, he doesn't expect her to have any legitimate response. 

(As nerve wracking as it is to suddenly be the subject of attention, the assumption, the implication in his stance, the judgment in his gaze irks her beyond belief)

"You were quoting John Locke, were you not?" Miranda replies evenly, with all the decorum required of a society woman. "It's “the _actions_ of men are the best interpreters of their thoughts.” Not words."

The smile drops from the man's lips immediately. 

"I'm quite sure it's—"

"The lady is correct. It is actions," the second man—Hamilton, she recalls—interrupts. Contrary to his companion, he looks delighted, and the grin he flashes her is much more genuine. 

"Thomas Hamilton," he greets, taking a step in her direction. "And if I may be so bold, you are—?"

"Miranda," she acknowledges, the faintest flutter in her stomach when he takes her hand and brushes his lips briefly across her knuckles. "Miranda Barlow."

“Do you dance, Miss Barlow?” Thomas asks. Miranda has, in fact, been thus far avoiding just that, not particularly in the mood this evening to engage in the ridiculous courtship narratives of the London marriage mart, but...she could be convinced to make an exception.

“I do,” she replies. “With the right partner.”

(Her aunt would be appalled, but Thomas looks intrigued)

“I see. And what precisely would the qualifications be for such a partner?”

“Well…” Miranda bites back a smile as her gaze flicks over him brazenly before meeting his once more. His eyes sparkle with amusement, but they’re warm and welcoming.

“To start, he would need to actually ask rather than merely implying an invitation,” she finishes. Thomas chuckles quietly and inclines his head in acknowledgment of the prompt. 

“Will you dance _with me_ , Miss Barlow?” He clarifies.

“Yes,” Miranda agrees, tucking her hand into the band of his elbow so he can lead her toward the faint strains of music in the other room. “Gladly.” 

Thomas stays with her through the next three dances—as many as society would deem proper—and even through a turn about the room afterwards, the two of them caught up in a debate on the merits of John Locke versus Thomas Hobbes and the nature of human morality until her aunt drags her away.

It’s the best ball she’s ever been to.

(When Thomas sends a card to her aunt and uncle’s house the next day asking if he might call on her, well, how could she say no?)

* * *

She falls. She falls _hard_.

Her aunt thinks she has taken leave of her senses, to spend so much time with a single gentleman and ignore the parade of second, third, and fourth sons she's worked so hard to collect for her niece. 

"He'll never marry you," she hisses one night after they've fought about it yet again. "He'll spend the season with you, to be sure. And then he'll leave, get engaged to some heiress or other within three months, and you'll be the laughingstock of London. Is that what you want?"

Miranda doesn't flinch, but she feels the sting of the words like a lash. 

(But how can she explain that she doesn't care? That the hours she spends with Thomas are the only ones in which she doesn't feel like a prize bird in a cage at auction? It may be laughable to call it freedom but it's as close as she's come. And how could she settle for something else after knowing what it's like to be treated as an equal?)

(She thinks sometimes that if he does not make her his wife, she may yet find herself his mistress. The thought doesn't bother her the way it perhaps should)

"You're wrong about him," Miranda replies. "Thomas cares for me. He wouldn't just abandon me to fall into disgrace."

"Lord in heaven, girl," her aunt swears. "You are not young enough to be so naive. Tell me, has he ruined you already or am I presently spared from having to explain that to your mother when I meet her at the heavenly gates?"

She flushes—more out of anger for the slight to Thomas than to her own reputation. 

"He is a gentleman—"

"Yes, precisely. And I've seen what gentlemen do."

Miranda's hands twist in her skirts for a moment before she stands without another word. 

"Miranda—"

"He's never touched me," she interrupts. Her aunt's mouth snaps shut. "Not once in any way that would be considered improper. He's never even tried."

_If he did, I would let him._

"Miranda..." The change in tone is almost apologetic, but she's not in the mood. 

"I'm tired," she continues. "I think I'll take my leave. Goodnight."

* * *

"Have I done something to offend your aunt?" Thomas asks the next day as soon as they are out of sight of the residence. "Only, I feel oddly as though I've narrowly escaped death what with the daggers her eyes were sending my way." 

Miranda sighs and presses ever so slightly closer to his arm, hyperaware of Millicent, the ladies’ maid, watching like a hawk only a few steps behind. 

"Do not overly concern yourself," she replies. "It's mostly me who's drawn her ire."

"May I ask how?"

_Has he ruined you already?_

She flushes unconsciously and bites the inside of her cheek, the silence stretching on long enough that he backtracks. 

"Forgive me," Thomas says. "It was an impertinent question."

"It wasn't," Miranda assures. "It's only..."

Her internalized sense of propriety wars with her desire to tell him the truth, until—

"Miranda?" His voice is soft, genuine concern in his tone, and that above all else makes up her mind. 

"She thinks it...unwise of me to spend so much time with someone who will not...make a wife of me," she admits. 

They've reached the park now, but Thomas slows more than she expects, a strange note in his voice when he murmurs, "I see."

Miranda glances over—for once he isn't looking at her, but even his profile is troubled, upset even. For a moment she's unsure what to say, merely watches as whatever storm has awoken inside him dims the light that is usually so present, until finally his jaw tightens and he looks back to her. 

"Have I done something to give that impression?" The agitation, even anger, in his eyes takes her aback. 

"Thomas—"

"Is that truly what you think of me?" He continues. "That I am somehow the type of man who would toy irresponsibly with a good woman's reputation? For what? My own amusement?"

"No," Miranda says firmly, pressing her free hand to his chest and stepping closer, uncaring of who might see or what rumors may result. "My aunt believes it, but I do not. I believe that you care for me. I would even dare, perhaps, to call us friends. But I also would not presume to make assumptions about your intentions one way or another."

The bright frustration fades from his eyes before he drops his gaze, some new shadow, one that is utterly foreign to her understanding, passing over his face. There's a hesitancy in his shoulders, in the way his tongue passes over his lips to stall for words, that she would have thought him incapable of. Thomas Hamilton, always so earnest and confident, disquieted by the uninformed nattering of an old society matron. 

It's quite odd to see. 

"I would, you know," Thomas says finally, raising his eyes back to hers. For a moment, Miranda doesn't understand, the beginning of the conversation seeming so far away now. 

"You would—?"

"Make a wife of you."

It’s Miranda’s turn to freeze, her heart skipping a beat as her tongue turns to stone in her mouth. 

“You—” There’s a flush in her cheeks, but her stomach twists itself into a knot, nerves whispering that she shouldn’t be so agreeable, so obvious, that this could still be some sort of cruel joke even though it would be so unlike him. “You what?”

“Miranda…” Thomas’ voice softens, the corners of his lips turning up as he takes her hand in his. “I had planned on waiting until after I’d had the opportunity to speak with your aunt and uncle—to do things properly—but, yes. Nothing would make me happier than if you were to agree to marry me.”

Has anyone ever loved someone as much as she loves this man? Miranda wonders. Her parents, perhaps, but it was nothing she ever expected for herself. 

“I—” Her voice catches—she suddenly feels three years younger, as if this were her first season all over again, shy and uncertain. But that feeling only lasts a moment. “I don’t believe I was asked a question,” she finishes.

Thomas laughs and squeezes her hand, the amusement lightening his eyes. 

“Miss Barlow, will you marry me?”

Miranda forgets about Millicent, forgets about where they are, about what anyone might say, leans up on her toes, and kisses him. It’s a quick thing, but not so quick that she doesn’t notice the softness of his lips, the way his breath catches in surprise when her mouth meets his. 

“Yes,” she replies when she steps back, the knot in her stomach dissipating into giddiness. “Yes, Lord Hamilton, I will marry you.” 

His grin stays with her for the rest of the day. 

(The engagement is finalized within a week and Miranda and Thomas marry two months after the end of the season)


	2. Thomas

What Miranda had said to her aunt the night before Thomas proposed remains true until the wedding—he never touches her in a way that isn’t perfectly innocent and respectable, not even when their engagement might give others cause to look the other way if he did. 

Not even when she wants him to.

Miranda doesn’t say so, doesn’t ask him to, the impropriety of the thought enough to stall even her quick tongue, but she can’t deny that she _wants_. At night sometimes, she’ll slip a hand beneath her nightdress and bite her lip thinking about his mouth, his hands, imagining what they would feel like against her skin as heat builds between her thighs until she quakes with pleasure.

She wants him. But she can wait—he’s to be her husband after all. She tells herself he’s simply being a gentleman. She tells herself everything will be different on their wedding night. 

To say their wedding night is a disaster would be an understatement.

* * *

Miranda dismisses her new maid as soon as her hair is brushed out and sits on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to take in the room—just one of many in the house that she is now mistress of. _Lady Miranda Hamilton_. She never thought she would be a _lady_. Not that it matters. She would have married Thomas if he had been a country minister like her father. 

She loves him. She loves him and now she’s his wife. 

Miranda starts when the door creaks open and Thomas slips through in his own bedclothes. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes fall to the bare skin of his throat and dip lower from there, the collar of his nightshirt cut deep enough to reveal the top of his chest. She twists her fingers in her shift so she won’t reach for him.

A strange air lingers around her new husband—nervousness, uncertainty. For a long moment he lingers by the door as if steeling himself for something and Miranda feels a slight pang of sympathy as she wonders if the reason he hasn’t touched her is because he’s just as inexperienced as she.

“Thomas,” she calls quietly, shifting up on her knees. “Come to bed?”

Thomas looks up and meets her eyes—resolve flickering over the shadows like candlelight. His throat works as he swallows, but then he nods and crosses the room in a few long strides.

“I—” He reaches for her, but doesn’t quite make contact, his hands hovering in the air just beside her waist. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. 

The sincerity of his voice is echoed by the look in his eyes and Miranda smiles. 

“Kiss me?” She asks. Thomas laughs and nods, the awkwardness evaporating as his hands settle against her waist and he ducks his head to claim her mouth.

It’s longer than their first kiss—far longer. His lips move against hers slowly, but with purpose, the softness, the heat of him making her want to pull him closer.

_Oh. She can._

(She does)

They both laugh when an overenthusiastic tug at his shirt sends Thomas falling to the mattress, and Miranda thinks this is how it should be. None of the uncomfortable stiffness described by some of the other married ladies when they discussed their husbands in hushed tones, but laughter and smiles and warmth. She can’t help herself from rolling onto him and kissing him again.

Thomas’ hand slips into her hair as she kisses him, his mouth opening, tongue sliding tentatively against hers. Miranda shivers, heat spreading through her as her knees settle on either side of his hips.

“Thomas—” She covers his free hand where it rests on her waist with her own and slowly slides it up to her breast. He inhales sharply and dips his head to her neck, tasting the skin beneath her jaw and nipping gently at her pulse. He distracts her so thoroughly that she doesn’t realize his hands haven’t moved until they fly to her hips when she rocks against him.

“Wait,” Thomas breathes. “Wait, love, I—”

“What is it?” Miranda asks, confusion dulling the heat swimming through her somewhat. “Darling, I’m your wife. You can touch me, I want—”

“I can’t,” he interrupts. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, the lamp casting shadows over his face when he lowers his eyes from her. His hands are like iron where they grip her hips, but a shiver runs through him when Miranda sets a finger beneath his chin to lift his face back to her.

_Shame. Regret._

“I’m so sorry, love.”

“For what?” She asks. When her other hand cups his cheek, Thomas tips into the touch even as his eyes flutter closed.

“I can’t do this,” he repeats quietly. 

“I love you, I do, as much as I’ve ever loved any woman. You are my dearest, _dearest_ , friend. But I don’t—I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that once we were married it might—not _fix_ because despite everything I do not believe myself to be broken—but might make it easier to share your bed.”

Miranda’s stomach sinks.

_As much as I’ve ever loved any **woman** —_   
_I do not believe myself to be broken—_   
_My dearest **friend** —_

It’s almost laughable, but she doesn’t much feel like laughing. Her husband, her beautiful, golden Achilles. 

Perhaps the metaphor is more apt than she’d realized.

“You don’t desire women,” she says, filling in the gaps of what he hasn’t quite managed to say aloud. 

“I _love_ you,” Thomas stresses. “And if this is something you need from me, I will endeavor to provide it.”

“But?”

He turns his head enough to press a kiss to her palm and sighs. “But, I would prefer not to dishonor you by thinking of someone else while making love to my wife.” 

If she asked, he would. 

_Lie back and think of England_ , isn't that the old adage? 

Something bubbles up in her chest, half laugh, half sob, but Miranda swallows it back before sliding out of his lap and turning away. 

If she asked...but how could she? There are some things that can never be unknown. As much as she wants him, even now, she can't take what he's offering. Not knowing, not when she would have to pretend she didn't. 

Her eyes burn. 

Does it make it better to know that he _wants_ to want her? It's a cold comfort to be sure. 

"Miranda?" Thomas reaches for her, his hand curving gently over her shoulder. She closes her eyes and swallows past the lump in her throat. 

_It doesn't matter_ , she tells herself. After all, she hadn't fallen in love with him for this, hadn't married him for it. She's his wife, his friend, his companion. She doesn't need to be his lover. She doesn't. 

As her vision of the world slowly rights itself, tapestry threads unfurling and reweaving, she banishes certain images—a golden-haired son, a blue-eyed daughter—and locks them away. 

"Would you like me to go?" Everything in his voice tells her he'll bear her no ill will if the answer is yes, but the pang in her chest at the thought is so sudden, so fierce, that Miranda brings her own hand to cover his on her shoulder and clutches it like a lifeline. 

"Will you hold me?" She asks. If her own voice is less even than she'd like, well, that can be excused. 

"Of course," Thomas agrees, his relief nearly palpable as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her back against his chest. When he presses his lips to her hair, a shuddering sigh escapes her at the warmth, the closeness, the intimacy of it. 

"I love you," Miranda says after a moment, grateful for the curtain of hair that hides the way her eyes are damp again. 

"And I, you," he murmurs, his arms tightening around her a fraction before he releases her just long enough to extinguish the lamp. Eventually, maybe minutes, maybe hours later, his breathing evens out and his grip on her slackens. 

Miranda doesn't sleep.

* * *

Despite the minor bump on their wedding night, Miranda finds that their friendship transitions to marriage quite smoothly. Nothing much changes, except for the fact that she now has her own house to run, can decline to see her aunt and uncle if she pleases, and frequently, although not always, no longer sleeps alone. 

(And it isn't entirely innocent either—not after the day Thomas had come home to find her abed early, her shift raked up to her hips as she worked herself to a shuddering climax before noticing her husband watching in curiosity from the doorway. As it turns out, he had not been lying when he said he wouldn't be opposed to fulfilling her needs, and though it may not be the most conventional arrangement—he still won't fuck her, and she won't ask—in the scheme of things their entire marriage isn't strictly conventional to begin with. And unconventional certainly doesn't mean bad—Miranda's fairly sure she'll never again be able to read Doctor Faustus without blushing after the particularly memorable night Thomas breathed the words into her ear in silken tones while her fingers played between her thighs)

It's easy. Which is why their first fight, when it comes late one night after a rather dull society party, takes her somewhat by surprise. 

"What did Lord Marlborough say earlier to make you laugh so?" Thomas asks over his shoulder, tugging off his cravat as Miranda pulls the pins from her hair and sighs as her curls tumble free. 

Pushing back the chair from her vanity, she rises and crosses the room until she's close enough to slip her arms around his waist. 

"Do you really want to know?" Miranda teases, still floating on a high of possibly a touch too much wine as she sets her lips to her husband's neck. "He's a dreadfully scandalous flirt."

"Oh?" Thomas chuckles and meets her eyes in the reflection of his own dressing mirror, a wry smile quirking his lips. "All the better."

"He said you are a very lucky man," she tells him. "But that it was terrible of you to leave my side. And, he added that given the opportunity, he would never leave the most beautiful woman in the room looking so...unsatisfied." 

Miranda laughs as she pulls away, reaching behind to the laces of her gown. She could ring for a maid, but at this hour she'd prefer to manage herself or allow Thomas to assist rather than wake anyone unnecessarily. It's only when his hands bat hers away from the laces a few quiet moments later that she realizes Thomas hasn't said another word. 

When she glances back at him, his face is pensive, as if he's unsure whether or not to choose a given course of action or line of reasoning. But, she doesn't press—it only takes until he's gotten down to her stays before he speaks again. 

"You could," he acknowledges quietly. 

"I could what, dear?"

"Give him the opportunity," Thomas clarifies. "Or someone else, if not him."

Miranda goes abruptly cold, a bolt of anger strong enough to border on irrational wrenching her away so she can turn and face him. 

_Surely he isn't suggesting—_

"Give someone the opportunity to _what_ exactly?" She asks, her tone frigid to her own ears. But whatever warning may have been implicit in it, Thomas barrels over it without hesitation. 

"Satisfy you."

"You think I should take a _lover_?" Miranda isn't sure she could be more offended if he'd slapped her.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Thomas replies. “Plenty of people—”

“Have you?” She interrupts. “Is that why you’re suggesting this? Because you’ve taken one?”

Miranda has never considered herself a particularly jealous person, but the way Thomas pauses, the look that passes over his face, makes her stomach twist. 

“It isn’t what you think,” he explains quietly. “Nothing’s happened. I wouldn’t—not unless you agreed.”

“But you’ve met someone,” she replies. It isn’t a question, but Thomas nods once anyway.

“I have.”

“I see.”

“Miranda—”

Miranda turns her back to him and blinks hard against the burn in her eyes.

“I’d like to sleep alone tonight.” Her voice doesn’t shake, her tone invites no argument. Even so, she can feel the weight of her husband’s stare, the way he clearly wants to say something, for several long moments before he sighs and leaves the room.

They don’t speak for two days.

On the morning of the third, Thomas evidently decides he’s given her more than enough space and interrupts her in the bath.

“Lord Hamilton! My lady is—I—”

“It’s alright, Miss Farrow,” Miranda hears Thomas say from the other side of the small privacy screen around the tub. “I would simply like a word with my wife.”

“I—”

“You’re dismissed, Jane,” Miranda calls, cutting off her maid’s flustered response at the pass. “Thank you, dear. I’ll ring if I need anything later.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Silence reigns after the door shuts behind the other woman

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says finally. “I meant no offense. I merely—”

“Yes?”

“I was only thinking of your happiness.”

Against her better sensibilities, a bitter and frustrated laugh forces itself out of her throat.

“My happiness,” Miranda repeats waspishly. “I can assure you, my _happiness_ is not going to be achieved through that particular suggestion, but I’m sure you could come up with something else given time.”

Thomas sighs and steps around the screen, suddenly looking far older and more tired than his years should dictate, and she feels the smallest pang of regret for being so harsh with him.

“I don’t know what you want,” he admits. It may be the first time she’s ever heard him say such a thing.

Miranda swallows hard and stares down at the cooling bath water for a long moment before pushing herself up out of it and wrapping herself in her dressing gown, uncaring of the way the thin material dampens when it meets her skin.

“I want my _husband_ to care if I fuck someone else. Not be the one suggesting it,” she replies quietly, her back to him, less heat and more exhaustion in her voice than she’d like. “I want my _husband_ to want _me_. But I know that’s impossible.”

There’s a pause, a silence that seems to stretch on for an age, and then Thomas speaks.

“Should I not have married you?” He asks. When Miranda turns in surprise, he looks troubled.

“Was it selfish of me?” 

“No,” Miranda replies after a moment, and Thomas looks stricken before she clarifies. “No, it wasn’t selfish.”

She sighs and pulls the fabric of the robe tighter around herself. “I don’t regret marrying you,” she admits. “You were the best match I could ever have hoped for, besides which we were—are—friends, and I love you. How many marriages do we know of that lack such things? I would much rather be happy with you than miserable with someone else.”

“But?”

“But, you must understand that I spent many years being told what marriage was supposed to be like,” Miranda confesses. “And despite the fact that I always hated the thought of fitting into the carefully crafted role of what a wife should be, there are times I feel rather adrift without it. I need time to adjust.”

Thomas wets his lips and looks away, considering, processing that statement in light of past events. When he looks back at her, his eyes are gentle.

“If you were to take a lover, it wouldn’t mean you love me any less,” he assures. “I would never think that. As I would hope that you would know, if I ever did it wouldn’t mean I love you any less either.”

Miranda swipes roughly at her eyes and looks at her husband for half a beat before crossing the space between them and kissing him firmly. She makes a choice in that moment, when his arms come around her and his mouth plays over hers. It means breaking a piece of herself off—that final, irrational branch that had held on since he first confessed to her that perhaps something might change in time. It hurts. She does it anyway.

(Happiness is a fleeting thing, after all. Why shouldn’t they have it while they can?)

“You should,” Miranda says when she pulls back. Thomas blinks.

“I should what?”

“The man you met. Make him yours, if you wish.”

She’s not sure Thomas would have looked so stunned if she had smacked him over the head with a lamp.

“Darling, I—are you—are you quite sure?” He asks. 

“Yes,” Miranda replies. “And I think I may know a way in which you could go about it.”

A month later, rumors begin to swirl about Lady Hamilton and her lover. Just as she’d expected, no one ever suspects the man in question is, in fact, _Lord_ Hamilton’s lover instead. Half a year passes before she takes one of her own. Three months after that, the two of them spend the night with a man together.

It’s unconventional, but it works. It’s imperfect, but it’s close enough.

And then, James McGraw walks into their lives.


	3. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t have the words to explain herself fully, even to Thomas. To explain that it’s not just about James’ physical appearance—although that is certainly _very_ nice—but the spark between them, the feeling that she knows him, that he knows her, that he _sees_ her. She can’t say why precisely she finds herself thinking James McGraw may just be a kindred spirit.
> 
> So she doesn’t.

The Hamiltons are between lovers when they meet James, Thomas’ fixation on piracy and civilizing the Bahamas leaving little time for more intimate pursuits. It would be easy to give that as a reason for why Miranda resolves to have the young lieutenant almost as soon as they meet, but privately her reasons run deeper.

She’s never put much stock in fate, never been particularly superstitious, but the first time James kisses her hand it’s as if the world stands still. His eyes bore into hers—green as grass, as the silk of her gown, as the emeralds in her earrings—and for a moment she could swear he sees into her very soul. That gaze freezes her to the floor.

(Miranda feels his kiss for an hour afterwards, long after she’s shut herself in her bedroom, leaning heavily against the door and brushing her fingertips over her knuckles where his lips had been)

“What do you think of Lieutenant McGraw?” Thomas asks that night. He’s pressed solidly against her back, one arm loose around her waist. He’s close enough that he can’t miss the way she shivers at the name, at the thought of ship-roughened hands skimming over her skin, of her own burying themselves in his fiery hair, of those _eyes_ —

“Oh,” Thomas breathes, his lips curving into a smile when he presses them to her neck. “Is that how it is? I can’t say that I blame you; he is rather dashing.”

“Don’t tease, dear,” Miranda chastises, although there’s a decided lack of heat to it given the way she sighs and arches her neck to give him better access immediately after.

She doesn’t have the words to explain herself fully, even to Thomas. To explain that it’s not just about James’ physical appearance—although that is certainly _very_ nice—but the spark between them, the feeling that she knows him, that he knows her, that he _sees_ her. She can’t say why precisely she finds herself thinking James McGraw may just be a kindred spirit.

So she doesn’t.

* * *

In the weeks that follow their initial meeting, Miranda learns several things about James McGraw. 

He’s uncomfortable with wealth—almost as uncomfortable as he is with women. He’s fiercely intelligent—he clawed his way to where he is, an officer in the Royal Navy, a liaison to a lord, up from depths she can only guess at. His manners are impeccable, clearly carefully studied, but there’s something else to them as well. 

Beneath the surface, there’s a wildness to him. Miranda sees it in the clench of his jaw when someone speaks over him, the flash of his eyes, the flare of his nose when he takes a steadying breath. It’s leashed, he has control of it, but she can’t help wondering what it might be like to see him let go.

She can’t help the thrill down her spine when she realizes she desperately wants to.

She tries to be patient. Tries to seduce James quietly, subtly, not wanting to come on too strong given that he freezes every time she flirts with him too heavily. But the night Jane tells her she heard a rumor that the Lieutenant started a public fight over a slight to her and Thomas, Miranda decides not to wait any longer.

* * *

Thomas is in his chair, thoroughly engrossed in papers when Miranda sweeps into the study and bolts the door behind her. He glances up just long enough to make note of the entrance—at least until she lifts the papers from his hands and sets them aside, sliding into his lap without a word. 

"Darling—"

Thomas doesn't get much further. Miranda kisses him hard, echoes of heated pleasure bursting under her skin as she licks into his mouth, slides her tongue against his until his hands fall to her waist. She only pulls away when the need to breathe becomes too great to ignore, but even then she presses her forehead to his in favor of staying close. Thomas too seems somewhat breathless when he speaks again. 

"Is—are you quite well, my dear?" He asks. "It's only—well, I was rather in the middle of something—"

Miranda captures his mouth again, pressing as close as her skirts will allow. Thomas doesn't indulge her for quite as long the second time, but when he breaks the kiss she interrupts before he can say anything else. 

"Can you taste him on me?" She breathes, curling her fingers into his cravat. "Sometimes I think I still can and it's terribly distracting."

Thomas stills. 

"I—" He clears his throat and his hands flex on her waist. "Who?"

Miranda laughs, breathless and low, and turns her attention to the edge of his jaw as she answers. 

"Your lieutenant," she replies, luxuriating in the way he shivers when she drags her teeth just below his ear. "James."

As she had anticipated, the response quells any additional discussion about her husband's work for the moment. 

"Did he—did you—" Thomas' voice is rough, and Miranda takes pity on him, for once not inclined to make him ask the question before she offers details. 

"I fucked him," she murmurs directly in his ear. "In our carriage. And then I took him back to his residence and did it again."

Thomas swears under his breath, then cups the back of her neck and pulls her mouth back to his. 

It's playing with fire, this. But that's the thrill of it—the way that no matter how much she may have the upper hand, Thomas can flip things in an instant. 

"Was it good? Was he good to you?" Miranda shivers at the heat in his voice, the way the roughness of it scrapes at her ears, sparks like flint in her blood. 

"So good," she gasps as his teeth find her neck. "The first time he was so unsure, I thought I would have to beg him to touch me, but the second—god, Thomas—the second time I thought I would die it was so good."

Thomas laughs and slips a hand under her skirts, grazing fingers against her thigh. 

"Tell me," he says. 

Miranda bites off a moan and finds the effort to move off his lap and pull him to his feet. 

"Take me to bed and I will."

He does.

When both of them are spent and lying side by side in their bed, Thomas glances over at her and grins. 

"In our carriage?" He teases. "Is Mr. Simmons going to be able to look me in the eye for the next week?"

Miranda laughs, high and bright, and laces her still-damp fingers through his. 

"You should have seen James, Thomas. If I'd let him go I'm quite sure he'd have found a way to never be alone with me again. And besides—" Her own smile turns wicked. "—I was quiet."

"You're never quiet, love."

* * *

"He likes you," Miranda murmurs late that night, drifting on the edge of sleep. "James."

Thomas doesn't respond right away, but neither do his fingers falter where he's been tracing abstract patterns over the planes of her back. 

"I should hope so," he replies after a long moment. "We may be working together for some time."

Miranda can't summon the energy to fully roll her eyes, but she does so in spirit. 

"Don't be deliberately obtuse, darling, it doesn't suit you," she admonishes gently. "He likes you. It's possible he may not even be aware of it himself, but the number of times he brought you up in casual conversation...well. Besides which, I'm fairly certain at least half of his reluctance to our liaison was out of concern that you would think badly of him for it."

A moment later, when Thomas still hasn't spoken, Miranda adds, "And I've seen the way he looks at you."

That does give him pause. 

"How does he look at me?" There's a rare hint of vulnerability in Thomas' voice that she's sure would be reflected in his face if she were to open her eyes and look. But she doesn't need to in order to know she should tread carefully. 

"The way—the way I imagine I looked at you when we first met," she replies. "As if you're a lighthouse beacon, or a lake in the middle of a desert, and he's torn between running to it and believing it's a mirage that could vanish at any instant. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real, but he’s desperately hoping you are."

"He thinks I'm half-mad," Thomas points out. 

"He thinks your _plan_ is half-mad," Miranda corrects. "Which, to be fair, so do I."

"It's not—"

"Hush, love. No business in the bedroom. You can try and convince me over breakfast."

* * *

_Like he can’t quite believe you’re real, but he’s desperately hoping you are._

Miranda’s own words echo in her head weeks later as she watches Thomas close the space between himself and James, both of their faces raw and open, a vulnerability in the air that makes her feel rather like a voyeur. She’s seen her husband kiss other men before, seen him do much more than kiss other men. But she’s never seen him look at another man like that.

She’s never seen him look at _her_ like that.

_Oh._

Somehow, despite the fact that she and Thomas had discussed the possibility of sharing James if he was amenable, despite the fact that everything with James has been different than with other partners, Miranda hadn’t been prepared for...this.

He loves him. Thomas _loves_ him. And if she’s not mistaken, James feels the same.

A sudden, fierce pang of gut-wrenching jealousy threatens to undo her and Miranda elects to slip out of the room before she draws attention to herself. Somehow she doesn’t imagine she’ll be missed. At least, not tonight.

_Perhaps not ever._

She gets as far as the top of the staircase before she has to stop and steady herself—one hand coming to the banister as the other presses to her mouth, stifling a sob. There’s a hurricane inside of her, too many emotions to name swirling in a violent mass that would send her to her knees if she allowed it. 

Fear whips through her like pelting rain, chilling her from the inside out with a cold that only skin against skin can banish. Fear that she’ll lose Thomas, that she’ll lose both of them. Fear that she’ll fade into the background, unloved, unwanted, unneeded. And more, fear that regardless of her circumstances, they could all be ruined at any moment. 

_Happiness can be a dangerous thing._

Below, the dining room door opens and shuts, two sets of footsteps slowly making their way towards the staircase. Miranda forces her feet to move, locks herself away in her room, and only then lets the tears come.

It’s not just about Thomas and James—it’s the sting of Alfred Hamilton’s words to her at dinner, the exhaustion and strain that comes from living the way they do, it’s the fact that she is not a perfect monolith and has been cracking, crumbling for far too long—it’s so many things. She cries until she can’t anymore, finally falling asleep still in her dress and corset, too worn down to ring for Jane.

* * *

Miranda wakes early, her eyes sore from crying and her ribs aching from the corset. She rings for Jane immediately and sighs in relief minutes later when the maid deftly unlaces her, easing the pressure in her chest.

“Would you like to dress for today, my lady?” Jane asks when Miranda steps away and settles in the chair by the vanity.

_Lord above, she’s tired._

“Just the dressing gown for now,” Miranda replies, the thought of being laced and buttoned into yet another constricting ensemble so soon after being freed from the last enough to make her skin crawl.

“And I’ll take breakfast in the library today,” she adds as she pulls pins from her hair. That too is a relief—tension eases out of her head and neck and the throbbing behind her eyes dulls to a more manageable level.

Jane reaches around her and picks up the brush, smoothing out the curls that tumble down Miranda’s back. 

“Will Lord Hamilton be joining you?” The question is as much a practical one as it is a dig for fresh gossip and Miranda doesn’t begrudge the other woman for it. She does trust Jane to keep her confidence, and perhaps if it were a different day or a different subject she may be more inclined to unburden herself, but at the moment she’s not sure she wishes to speak to anyone about Thomas or James or Thomas _and_ James until she herself can work through her own feelings. 

“I would be rather surprised if he did,” Miranda replies finally, leaving Jane to read into that what she may. 

It’s not an inaccurate statement—she doesn’t expect to see Thomas, or James, or anyone really. She’s so certain of it that she doesn’t even bother to lock the library door for privacy. Which is why when the door opens as she’s in the middle of taking a sip of tea, all Miranda can do is stare.

“Sneaking out?” 

James jumps and swears under his breath as he notices her on the settee. There’s something oddly endearing about the flash of nervousness in his eyes, the way his hands rush to fix his untidy appearance—as though she would mind his mussed shirt and loose cravat when she’s in her dressing gown.

(Besides which, it’s not as though she hasn’t seen him in further states of undress. Although, she supposes he may think it different when she’s the one who’s made him untidy in the first place)

“Mir—my la—I—” 

Miranda raises an eyebrow as a flush paints his cheeks and James clears his throat, swallows, and tries again.

“I’m not leaving,” he replies. “I merely needed...a moment.”

She takes another sip of tea and nods. “I understand.”

And she does. Thomas is, well, _Thomas_. Miranda still recalls times during their engagement where she would look over at him and have to catch her breath, where she would be overwhelmed by the thought that this man chose _her_. That’s what she sees in James now, that same awe mixed with a hundred other feelings, and she doesn’t blame him at all for needing an escape.

“You disappeared last night,” James says, changing the subject, although not enough for her comfort.

“I thought I might be in the way,” Miranda acknowledges, the echo of the pains she’d felt the night before a dull ache in her chest. She looks away so she doesn’t have to see his reaction to that.

“Thomas said—” James pauses—the hint of uncertainty in his voice reminds her of that first day she’d shown up at his lodgings unannounced. “—he said that the two of you will sometimes share a lover.”

“Yes,” she replies, still not looking up from her tea cup. “Although it’s hardly a requirement. I can assure you, I will bear you no ill will if you no longer wish to share my bed.”

Miranda isn’t sure what she expects—acceptance perhaps, gratitude for not forcing him to raise the issue himself maybe. That’s not what she gets.

In a few strides, James crosses the room and drops to his knees in front of her, one hand reaching out to lift her chin, to raise her eyes to his.

“Is that what you think?” He asks. “That if I can have Thomas, I will no longer wish to see you? That I won’t want you? Is that why you left last night?”

“I—James—” There’s a storm in his eyes and it pulls her in. She wants to drown in that gaze. She’s afraid she might.

“Forgive me if this is too bold, but I cannot imagine a world where I would not want you.”

_Oh._

She can’t breathe. 

“Do I need to convince you?” James asks, taking the cup from her hands and setting it on the side table. “Or will you take me at my word?”

Miranda wets her lips, shaken by the sincerity in his gaze, in his voice. She does believe him, but—

“Convince me.” The words slip from her mouth unbidden, but any embarrassment she may have been inclined to feel vanishes with the wicked twist of his lips, with the way his hands slide over her thighs, rucking up her dressing gown. 

“As my lady commands.” 

She sends him back to Thomas’ bed an hour later with his mouth wet and tasting of her, with scratches on his shoulders that her husband teases her for later.

(“You didn’t have to stake a claim, darling.”

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same.”)

That night, they all sleep in her room in a tangle of limbs that shouldn’t be comfortable but somehow manages to be anyway. 

It’s perfect. 

And then it all falls apart.


	4. Nassau

A happy life is a beautiful thing. But it is also a dangerous thing.

Miranda tries—as Thomas does, as James does—to simply revel in it. But she hears the whispers they don’t. She can’t stop paying attention to the things waiting in the shadows.

(And how could she? She’s been protecting Thomas for years. It’s become second-nature)

She warns them—begs for patience, for temperance, for subtlety, because they are trying to change a world that is far stronger than two men, no matter how brilliant they may be. But she’s Cassandra in a modern world and her husband, despite all his virtues, is more of an Icarus than he realizes.

His fall is a spectacular thing.

* * *

It’s the shouting from downstairs that first draws Miranda’s attention, freezing her in the middle of a page turn as she tries to make out words instead of just voices.

“My lady!” Jane appears in the doorway, panic and confusion in her voice, in her eyes, and Miranda’s stomach drops. She almost doesn’t want to know, as if not knowing will reverse the course of whatever has been set in motion. And yet, there is no reversing it, no turning back, no second chances. The time for caution has long passed—the Sword of Damocles has been hanging over all of their heads for months.

And it’s finally fallen.

“Tell me.”

“They’re taking Lord Thomas,” Jane says, her voice trembling. “Five men with swords and pistols. They’re claiming he’s mad. Lord Ashe is trying to talk them down but—”

Miranda doesn’t think she’s ever been so cold.

“But?”

“They say they were sent by his father.”

Miranda doesn’t recall leaving the room, nor her flight down the staircase as fast as her feet will carry her. Later, she only remembers the image of all of them by the door, Thomas in irons like a common criminal. 

“Where are you taking my husband?” She demands.

“Bethlem Royal Hospital, madam,” the closest man answers.

The rest reach for their weapons when she rushes toward Thomas, but she doesn’t care. She has to see him, has to touch him, has to _save_ him.

“For god’s sake,” Peter swears. “Let the man see his wife. Or are you really so uncivilized that you’ll cut down an innocent woman in her own house?”

Miranda barely hears him.

“Thomas,” she breathes, taking his face in her hands. 

“I should have listened to you,” her husband replies, an uncharacteristic flicker of fear breaking through the brave mask he’s barely maintaining.

She’s never wanted to be right less in her life.

“I won’t let them take you,” Miranda tries to assure, swallowing back a sob. She can be strong. She can be brave. She can save him, she _can_.

“You must, darling. I won’t see you hurt over this.”

“No,” she insists, even as she knows it’s a fool’s promise. What can she truly do against five armed men? Perhaps if James were with her they might have a chance, but like this?

“I can’t lose you.”

Thomas swallows hard and closes his eyes for a moment, clearly struggling to keep his own composure. When he opens them again, they’re wet.

“I love you,” he says. “I will never stop loving you.”

“Thomas—”

“Promise me,” he interrupts, his voice wavering. “Promise me you’ll take care of James. That the two of you will stay together. Promise me that you’ll tell him—”

Thomas’ voice breaks and Miranda can’t muffle her own sob. 

“I promise,” she swears. “Of course I promise, I love you, I love you, I love—”

Hands grip his elbows and a fresh wave of terror closes around her heart like a vice.

“No,” Miranda says, not too proud to beg. “No, please. Please—”

“It’s time to leave.”

“No. No, you can’t—Thomas—”

She presses as close as she can and kisses him, fierce and raw and desperate. Thomas returns the kiss with equal desperation until he’s wrenched back. Miranda tries to surge forward again, but arms catch her around the waist, iron bands that even her fiercest struggle can’t break.

“Thomas!”

She sags against Peter’s arms as soon as the door closes, overwhelming grief threatening to tear her asunder. When her knees give out, Peter helps her to a chair and stays with her as she weeps.

Miranda cries until she can’t anymore, until she’s numb enough to take in the full scope of what she’s lost. Thomas, England, everything really. Everything except James. Maybe. If she hasn’t lost him too.

When he walks through the door the relief of it nearly breaks her again, at least for the brief moment before she realizes she’ll have to explain, that she’s going to have to rip his world out from under him, destroy him the way she’d been destroyed only hours before.

Her voice is calm as she says the words— _He is to be committed there, owing to his uncontrollable grief over having learned of my affair with you_ —but inside she is anything but. Inside of her is rage, sharp and violent and burning, and it settles into her very bones. She wants to scream until her voice gives out. She wants to burn this house to the ground, to lay waste to the entire world. She wants to rip Bedlam down stone by stone and claim her prize. She wants to take a knife to Alfred Hamilton’s throat and feel skin come apart under her power, to make him feel as helpless as he’d made her.

She wants destruction. She wants violence. She wants revenge. 

But she made a promise.

_Take care of James_.

* * *

In a way, it’s fitting that they go not to Paris or Boston, but to New Providence Island. Miranda Hamilton becomes Miranda Barlow once more, but the girl she was when she last carried that name is so far from the woman she is now. James sheds his name as well, James McGraw vanishing into the sea, his blue Navy coat exchanged for black pirate colors. Flint is a fitting name for him—the wildness inside him no longer leashed, he sparks and burns and rages indiscriminately, going out to sea and coming home bloody and bruised, with new cuts and scars that he wears like trophies. 

She’s jealous. Jealous of the fact that he has a way to indulge his taste for blood, that he can hurt England in a way that may not ever be enough but is nonetheless tangible and satisfying. 

She has no such thing. She only has him. And when he’s gone she has nothing—no friends, not even a casual acquaintance. She’s alone on this island with her grief and her rage and her books and more often than not she feels on the brink of disappearing altogether. 

When James is home, they are, neither of them, particularly nice to one another. She loves him, cannot imagine not loving him, and she knows he loves her, but they are too broken, too bitter for much softness. When they fuck, more often than not it’s a fight without words. It’s hard and fast, against walls and on tables, and she takes out her frustration on him since there’s no one else. She scratches and bites and leaves marks that she knows will last because he’s hers, he’s _hers_ and he should remember that when he’s away. Other people should see her marks and know he’s been claimed, that this man, as rough and hard as he is, _belongs_ to someone. 

(If people are going to call her a witch, she will earn the reputation with blood)

Miranda gets the letter on a Wednesday, three years after they first arrive on Nassau.

Thomas is dead. 

Thomas is _dead_.

She does not cry, at least not at first. She goes out to the Wrecks, where no one would ever think to look for her, and she screams. She screams and tears at half-formed hulls with her nails, breaking down weather-seared wood, cutting her palms on stray shards of metal. She rages and she bleeds and only then, after she’s too exhausted to continue, does she sit down in the sand and cry.

When James returns, she hands him the letter silently and shuts herself in her room to give him a moment.

* * *

Sometimes, Miranda wonders if James would teach her how to use a sword if she asked. If he would teach her the ways of a ship so that she might also be a pirate. She thinks she could learn, could dress as a man and stay by his side, to fight, to live, to die if need be, doing something that matters.

But...he would never risk losing her. She can’t decide if she hates him for that or not. 

The _Maria Aleyne_ is a turning point.

She knows she shouldn’t tell James even before she does it. 

She tells him anyway.

All the lives he’s taken for his own revenge, he can take Alfred Hamilton’s for hers. Miranda may want to do the deed herself, but she will accept James doing so in her stead.

Afterwards though, after he comes home to her and tells her it’s done, she doesn’t feel _better_. It changes nothing—Thomas is still dead, she and James have still been damaged irreparably by his loss. Alfred’s death may satisfy some of the vicious rage inside of her, but it does nothing for the vast ocean of grief that remains.

Miranda watches James sleep that night as she considers what she’s done, what he’s done, all in the name of a man who wouldn’t have wanted them to do any of it. 

_Take care of James_.

She hasn’t done a very good job of that, has she? Not the way Thomas meant it at least. 

There’s still time. She can change that, bring him back from Captain Flint. 

She will.

She’ll save both of them. For Thomas. For herself. 

She’ll save them.

**Author's Note:**

> I cry every day over Miranda Barlow Hamilton and her everything. This was basically just meant to be a love letter to her character, but it turned into so much more. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
